Sashay Magazine / July 2010 / Food: Pyramid or Teeter Totter?

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Food: Pyramid or Teeter Totter?

It looms before me, a bright white refrigerator that is a treasure trove of goodies. The cookies and cream ice cream in its waxy container; the frozen pizza that will sizzle and slide with grease, a sludge that will strain my arteries. And then there's Robert's leftover mozzarella sticks from our favorite diner; those thickly breaded logs of chunky cheese, a cork that will block the intestines. Pudding, divine and smooth on the palate, but a padding for the waist.

Oh God—then there’s the red velvet cake, a congealed mixture of dough, fat, eggs, fat, sparkling sugar and, did I mention fat? Fat—I hate you; Fat—I love you; especially when you’re dancing in that red velvet cake, an enigma that is not chocolate, that is not vanilla, but the best, the most decadent of both, moist and compact under a slathering of butter cream icing.

Unfortunately, I think too many American women join me in thinking of food this way. A love/hate relationship is never stable, and if there’s any word we don’t want to use to describe our eating habits, it’s unstable, or unbalanced.

We’ve all been inundated with illustrations of the ubiquitous food pyramid, the visual formula to nutritional success. We know about servings and portions, the importance of fruit, vegetables and whole grains. Heck, even fat has a place on the pyramid. Yet we often view food as forbidden--Okay, maybe a lot of the stuff that’s in my refrigerator shouldn’t be in there, but nonetheless, in moderation, those sweets and snacks will not be the end of me (make me instantly obese) or be the solution to all of my problems (think drowning your sorrows in a soupy sundae).

I think, as a weight and food obsessed nation, we actually exist in this gray area of eating disorders, an area that combines elements of bulimia and anorexia. Think about it. We’ll binge our favorite treat in the house, perhaps eat a whole bag of chips or all the M&Ms in the candy dish, leaving two behind so we don’t feel so bad. And the next day, feeling guilty and maybe even a little bloated, we’ll go on this quasi fast—skip breakfast, eat a chef salad and piece of bread for lunch, chug Diet Coke, and seal the punishment for last night’s binge with a lame Special K dinner. And if you’ve been a real good girl about your food economy for the day, you’ll treat yourself to a strawberry.
We treat ourselves, deprive ourselves; treat ourselves, deprive ourselves. It’s enough to drive anyone insane—no wonder Americans are either overweight or underweight.

It seems to me that if we can respect and love our bodies while still appreciating and enjoying our food, we’d be a more physically and psychological robust nation.